


Victory

by orphan_account



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Poland National Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:59:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2441105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poland win and Warsaw sings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after Poland's 2-0 and first victory over Germany.

They flee the scene of victory like the guilty leave a crime, and they leave their jubilant teammates like a pair of giddy teenagers, grappling on to one another, Warsaw still continuing to sing around them, for them, in tremendous notes and drunken nonsense. They share a room, just like always, a well-known duo of extraordinary capabilities and frequent failures, and share a bed. They share a bed like lovers would do; like the lovers they are.

Wojciech's hands are kind on Robert's skin, graceful along the curve of his back as if it were the grandest of piano, ivory keys and all, leaving not a mark. There are a showering of bruises already on his skin, up and down his legs, clustering near his ankle, so Wojciech traces them all, making silly pictures and making Robert laugh. He's good at that, making people laugh. It's a talent, Robert tells him, a gift from God. Wojciech smirks down at the older man, "You know, some people think your holier-than-thou attitude is pretentious."

Robert laughs again, quieter this time but with a wider smile. "And do you think that?" he asks, a hand on the back of Wojciech's neck, the other resting on his own chest, feeling the gentle thud of his heart finally come down from his throat.

Wojciech thinks for a moment, even takes time to bend down, kiss the underside of Robert's chin, his jaw, his cheek, his mouth, before whispering, "Nah, I just think you're full of shit," and kissing his mouth again, catching the complaint dead. He'd never admit to liking that about Robert, how he's simple and honest, with bright blue eyes and eats fish of Fridays.

"You shouldn't speak to your captain like that," Robert says, but much later on. They should be asleep but instead they are whispering, low as the walls are thin, with Robert's shoulder digging into the hollow of Wojciech's cheek. Their inhibitions are lost somewhere in the sheets that they tug around themselves and they both smell of sex. Sex and victory. Warsaw stills sings.

"You're not wearing the armband now, stupid," Wojciech mumbles, eyes closed and fingers jabbing into Robert's sides. "Robert?"

"What?"

"Do you think that, with the win being against Germany and all..."

Robert smiles at Wojciech, a small pull at the corner of his mouth, and settles into his pillow. "They'll remember, alright. No one's going to forget this." Robert closes his eyes, thinks that if there ever comes a day when his mind goes, when he forgets faces and maybe even his own name, he'll still remember the smell of the grass and the roar of the fans of tonight. He'll remember the Wojciech's acute declaration of love even if he does not remember his face, his name, the memories they're sure to make together.

"Good," he says, half-asleep. "Good."


End file.
